But if cattle and horses and lions had hands or could paint with their hands and create works such as men do, horses like horses and cattle like cattle also would depict the gods’ shapes and make their bodies of such a sort as the form they themselves have.

>>24571088 (OP)
i'm not as successful or wealthy and i have not fucked as many hot women. and i have no power and i'm not very funny

>>24571088 (OP)
I'm a 35 khv who has never worked due to child abuse and a plethora of mental health issues.

>>24571088 (OP)
Your time is up when your time is up. Just look in the mirror.

>"Many's the slip,"
>Hath the proverb well said, "'twixt the cup and the lip!"
>How blest should we be, have I often conceived,
>Had we really achieved what we nearly achieved!
>We but catch at the skirts of the thing we would be,
>And fall back on the lap of a false destiny.
>So it will be, so has been, since this world began!
>And the happiest, noblest, and best part of man
>Is the part which he never hath fully play'd out:
>For the first and last word in life's volume is — Doubt.
>The face of the most fair to our vision allow'd
>Is the face we encounter and lose in the crowd.
>The thought that most thrills our existence is one
>Which, before we can frame it in language, is gone.
>O Horace! the rustic still rests by the river,
>But the river flows on, and flows past him forever!
>Who can sit down, and say "What I will be, I will"?
>Who stand up, and affirm... "What I was, I am still"?
>Who is that must not, if question'd, say: "What
>"I would have remain'd or become, I am not"?
>We are ever behind, or beyond, or beside
>Our intrinsic existence. Forever at hide
>And seek with our souls. Not in Hades alone
>Doth Sisyphus roll, ever frustrate, the stone,
>Do the Danaids ply, ever vainly, the sieve.
>Tasks as futile does earth to its denizens give.
>Yet there's none so unhappy, but what he hath been
>Just about to be happy, at some time, I ween;
>And none so beguiled and defrauded by chance,
>But what once in his life, some minute circumstance
>Would have fully sufficed to secure him the bliss
>Which, missing it then, he forever must miss.
>And to most of us, ere we go down to the grave,
>Life, relenting, accords the good gift we would have;
>But, as though by some strange imperfection in fate,
>The good gift, when it comes, comes a moment too late.
>The Future's great veil our breath fitfully flaps,
>And behind it broods ever the mighty Perhaps.
-from Lucile by Owen Meredith